


all my oh my

by silklace



Category: The Libertines
Genre: Dirty Talk, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 15:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19478368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silklace/pseuds/silklace
Summary: August, 2001. Before it all goes bad, sort of.





	all my oh my

**Author's Note:**

> I keep telling myself "this is probably my last Libs fic" and then I keep writing Libs fic, so. Here we are!

why dont you ring carl?

ring him? you’d have more luck getting through on the phone to jabba the fucking hut. and even if I did, say what ‘oh I’m a broken hearted and cannae see for floods and we both know everything about everything about it all and you hate most of our fans and your a rude arrogant fake where were you doing karaoke when there was a wonderful roof and real people who love our music to play for and you’d said you’d come and I love you with all my oh my and you’re a judgemental, paranoid, twisted mumbling snob fuck

_Peter Doherty, 2003_

+++

The spliff flares at the end, cherry red in the dim evening light. “Go on.” The couch whines under the shift of Carl learning forward. There’s a fucked-up spring in there and sometimes if you sit on it just right it sounds like the opening note to a Django tune Carl’s been trying to teach him for the past six months that he can’t get right. 

“You go the fuck on.” His ribs hurt from laughing. His cheeks feel hot – the room is overwarm in the late summer doze. That’s probably got everything to do with it and nothing to do with the fact that Carl keeps looking him over from top to toe. Peter’s not sure he even realizes he’s doing it. 

Their fingers don’t touch when Carl passes him the joint, careful. He sucks a drag. “Tastes like your spit.” There’s a wonky nailhead in one of the floorboards, digging into the top of his spine. He ignores it. Easy to do when he’s on his second joint and Carl is alternating between plucking on his guitar and letting Peter rest his feet on his knees. 

“Does not, you Nancy boy.”

“Does too!” His voice cracks at the end, and Carl’s smirk widens. Goes knife sharp. He sniffs, rolling his shoulders like when the boys in the park try to have a go at him. Peter wants to say, _It’s just you and me though, isn’t it?_

“You don’t know what my spit tastes like.” 

“Yes, I do.”

“Don’t.”

“Do fucking too.”

“What’s it like then?”

He scrunches his toes against Carl’s leg hair and pulls. Carl wacks his foot away. “Tastes like your mouth.”

He gets his elbows under him. Carl’s inspecting his knee as if he could’ve possibly done him any kind of visible damage. He’s such a toss pot sometimes it makes Peter want to hit him. 

So, he does. Thwacks his bare foot against Carl’s jaw, feels the dull grind of bone on bone a split second before Carl’s face goes thunderous. “Oi!”

He widens his eyes. Carl’s on the edge of the couch now, like a coiled snake ready to strike. He leans back on his elbows and looks up at him, all shivery anger from the arches of his feet to the tips of his curling, moon-black hair. 

“I could kill you, you know,” Carl gripes, working his jaw. 

“No, you couldn’t.”

“That fucking hurt.”

“Aw, don’t be a baby. Probably hurt me more than it hurt you.” His foot’s still smarting, actually.

“Probably’ll give me like, a disgusting foot disease, you knobhead.”

His smile stretches wider, genuine. This is what they do. “Any diseases I’ve got, you’ve definitely already got, too, I can promise you that.” His knees tip open, thighs parting. 

Carl glares at him.

“D’you want me to kiss it better?”

“Fuck off.”

“C’mere. I’ll make it all better.”

“You’re such a shit, Peter, you really fucking are.”

“I’m your shit, though, aren’t I?” Carl doesn’t say anything. He’s still touching his jaw like he’s going to discover some sort of physical evidence of Peter on him, any minute now. Like there’s no way he’d get away unscathed. “Aren’t I, Biggles?”

The pot might be laced with something, he thinks, with the way his heart has started ratcheting up. Like a wild thing, in his throat. 

“Aren’t I?”

“Go take a fucking break, Pete.”

Right. “I fucking hate when you call me Pete.”

“I know you do.”

“I see how it is.” He rolls over onto his belly and pulls his knees under him. “You want me to do all the work, don’t you?” For all his posturing, when he turns his head, Carl’s eyes flick up from where he’s been watching Peter’s arse. He turns faintly red and looks away. 

“Let me make it up to you, Biggles.” The floor is so uneven and gauged up that it’s like knee-walking on sand, all shifting and tilting beneath him. Or maybe that’s the pot. He’s not sure. 

Still, when he’s planted himself, kneeling, between Carl’s legs, he has to take a minute to steady himself, both hands on Carl’s thighs, which makes Carl jump like a livewire. 

“It’s the middle of the afternoon, Pete.” His mumble is worse than ever. Always is, when he’s about to get his cock sucked. “Anyone could fucking walk in.”

It’s true. They’re not great about like locking doors or having a schedule or anything like that. Anyone could come in, see Peter with his mouth rounded over the head of Carl’s beautiful prick. 

“We’ll have to be quick then,” he says, focusing now, licking his lips. 

Carl adjusts himself in his trousers. He looks up at the ceiling. “Alright.”

“Yeah.” His mouth is fucking watering, already, which he didn’t think was a real thing until he met Carl. “Get your kit off.”

“Thought you were going to take care of it,” Carl gripes, but his hands are already undoing the buttons on his jeans and pushing them off his hips. 

“Am,” Peter says, “I am,” and then Carl’s taking his prick out and jacking it a few times, probably to bring himself to full-hardness like he thinks he’s got to be – presentable or something stupid for Peter to do this, and doesn’t he know that’s so fucking stupid, so fucking absurd? Peter wants him – at his most unpresentable, at his most raw - sad and stupid and fucked out and hungover and sick on the toilet and whimpering for his cock to get sucked – he wants him all, all of him, all of the time, so much that sometimes he thinks he’s going to be ill with it, that all of his skin is going to peel away with how much he wants him, he wants to yell at him that anytime they’re not with each other is so unrelentingly pointless, that he just goes around missing him all the time, waiting for the moments in between when they’re alone and Carl will look at him again like he -

He pushes Carl’s hand away and gets his mouth on him and he can’t help the stupid, greedy, little moan he makes as he gets to feel Carl fill up his mouth, get bigger inside of him, perfect and relentless and hot. 

Carl makes a small noise, like an exhale between his teeth. “Gotta be quick,” he reminds Peter, as if he’s somehow forgotten that – 

“Anyone could come in and see us, right?” He gets the words out in between sliding his mouth along the length of Carl’s prick, getting him wet from root to tip, so he feels the way Carl’s cock jumps as he says it. As he talks about someone watching them fuck, or more accurately, watching Carl put his cock in Peter’s mouth.

“Ye – ah,” Carl agrees, voice low and hoarse. “See you –”

“- sucking your cock?” He flicks his tongue out and feathers it along the underside of Carl’s cockhead. Carl’s fingers land in his hair, threading through, and he can’t stop the helpless noise he makes at that. Unbearable. He drops his face between Carl’s legs and lips at his balls, mouthing gently, pulling away just enough to say, “Licking your bollocks?”

Carl groans. He gets a hand between his legs and cups them, rubbing the hot skin against Pete’s lips. “Sucking my bollocks,” he corrects. 

“Oh, is that it?” But he’s opening his mouth anyways to take the whole hot little package inside of his mouth, hold them gently, flicking his tongue along the skin. Carl’s hips are jerking forward like he’s going to burst, like he can’t think about anything except Pete’s mouth on him. 

“You’ve got such a big fucking mouth,” Carl bites out, half a laugh, half wonder, half – something else. 

Peter releases his bollocks, nuzzles them back into shape, nudging and kissing and giving kitten licks until Carl’s thighs jump in oversensitivity. “You love this big fucking mouth,” he presses, licking his way back up the length of Carl’s cock to slide his lips along the head. “You love fucking this big fucking mouth, don’t you?”

Carl narrows his eyes, looking down at him. “Is that what you want?”

“If that’s what you want.” He shrugs, which must look faintly absurd with his mouth still moving in slick circles over Carl’s cockhead. “Like, if you wanted, and all.”

Carl’s eyes are very, very dark. He reaches forward and cups Peter’s face, slides his thumb along Peter’s lips, then dips it into the dark well of his mouth. “You want me to fuck your sweet mouth?”

Peter has to shut his eyes. He has to shut his eyes, or else he’s going to say something stupid while Carl fondles his face and tells him he’s got a sweet mouth. He swallows, and opens them again, not exactly looking at Carl just yet. Instead, he says, nonchalantly, “So, now I’ve got a sweet mouth?”

Carl’s voice is so low it’s almost inaudible. “So sweet.”

“That’s not what you said -”

“Are you wanking yourself, yet?” Carl interrupts him, something urgent in the tone of his voice. He tries not to feel grateful for it, for the interruption.

“Not yet.”

“Do it.” 

He’s already started undoing his trousers, but even still he bites back, “I thought you wanted this to be quick?”

“It will be.”

“Fuck.”

His prick is hard and hot and heavy in his hand, has been since the first time Carl gave him the once-over, not that he’d said anything at the time, and it seems to jump in his fist the minute he touches his fingers to it. 

“C’mon,” Carl bites out, and Peter’s not sure if he’s talking about the cock-sucking or the wanking but he’s nudging his hips forward and he’s pulling Peter’s face between his legs again with a hand on the back of his head and he’s sliding his foot forward until Peter’s practically humping his leg as he slides his cock in and out of the circle of his fist and Carl’s cock in and out of the circle of his mouth, and maybe one day he’ll be embarrassed about this, on the floor, desperate, practically belly up, humping desperately and letting Carl fuck his mouth, and it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last time and maybe, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, if someone were to walk in and see them, how they really are with each other, desperate and clawing for one another, Carl’s hips jerking like if he doesn’t come in Peter’s mouth the world is going to fall apart, making these awful little noises of desperation that Peter could spend the rest of his life wanking to, like he’s half-wild with want, like he’s thinking about throwing Peter down on his belly and rutting in to him, pressing his cock inside of him, rutting over and over until he comes in Peter’s ass, the rest of the world fucking watching like they’re on stage, like Carl wants everyone to know that Peter _lets_ him do this, lets him fuck his arse whenever he wants, and he would, he could, Peter’d let him and he’d suck his cock clean afterwards, would do anything for Carl because he’s madly, horribly, desperately – 

“You comin’? Oh, fuck, you’re coming, aren’t you, love?” Carl’s voice is like a knife under the pillow and if Peter weren’t already coming, spilling hotly over his fingers, he would be from that - _love_. 

_I am your love_ , he thinks, throwing his throat over the length of Carl’s cock, feeling the quickening pulse of him as he starts to come in his mouth, _Your love always and forever and on and on and on, no matter what and come what may._

He swallows, because he likes to and even though Carl always spits when they do it the other way ‘round. He likes knowing what Carl tastes like – all the bits that make him up.

“Fuck,” Carl breathes, as Peter slides his mouth along him one last time, cleaning him up, feeling the way his cock begins to move towards soft again. Once he asked Carl to try not to get hard with Peter’s mouth on him because he liked the feeling of him all soft and of course it hadn’t worked and also Carl had called him a mad bugger and a Nancy boy to boot. 

Sometimes, they kiss afterwards, and sometimes they don’t. Peter kisses his thigh, just in case this is it for a bit. They really do have a gig in a couple of hours, and people will start streaming in any minute now, if they’re not already downstairs pretending they can’t hear the noises overhead. 

“Kiss kiss?”

“Not with that mouth,” Carl protests. He’s doing up his trousers, but he stops and runs the back of his fingers along Peter’s cheek. “Sweet as it is,” he says. 

So, not this time, apparently. “Whatever,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. He flops backwards, which hurts on the hard floor, but he wriggles around until he’s got his trousers done up and by that point he remembers the joint, and he takes it up and relights it and takes a rather massive double-hit and then it doesn’t hurt so much, anymore. The floor, that is. 

Because he’s an incontrovertible hypocrite, Carl eyes him with the joint. “You’re not going to like – be off your head for the gig tonight, right? I know you think you’re like – all cool and shit but last time you forgot the fucking words halfway through.”

Peter blows the smoke away. His hair’s a bit in his eyes. Carl’s looking him up and down again, stretched out as he is on the floor with his shirt rucked up to his ribs. “I’m very rock and roll,” he says solemnly. 

Carl rolls his eyes. “You’re a twat is what you are.”

“I’ve got a persona to keep up, forgetting the lyrics is like – nuffin’.” He pauses. They can hear footsteps on the stairs now. Carl adjusts his shirt, sniffing and looking away from Peter. “’Sides,” he continues, voice a little louder than it was before, when it was just the two of them. “S’not like you’ve not done worse.”

John peeks his head around the doorway. “Who’s done worse?”

“Definitely not me,” Carl says. 

“You aren’t playing tit for tat again, are you?” John asks ominously. “What’s that game called again? ‘You’ve Definitely Done Way Worse Than I Ever Have?’ he recites. They’d made it up once, after a terrible row that had ended with Gary threatening to leave and Carl with a split lip. Peter’d had cigarette burns on the insides of his elbows, too, but he’d done those to himself so nobody’d cared. 

“We don’t keep score,” Carl says, loftily, reaching for his pack of cigarettes. John’s smiling too, like it’s all a joke. 

The joint’s almost down to nothing in Peter’s fingers. He takes a last drag and, around the exhale, says, “Oh, we definitely do. Carl – well, he’s the one who’s winning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Comments and feedback loved and appreciated! <3


End file.
